Artistic Temperaments
by Leni
Summary: Artist!AU (see prompt). The more it changes... "If they were at his apartment, this would be the moment the neighbors call the police and he has to explain to yet another frowning officer that artistic temperaments must have an outlet."


Written for _**dacian_goddess **_at Comment_Fic.

**Prompt: **_House/Cameron, House is a reclusive piano virtuoso, Allison a rising star wanting to do a collaboration._

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><p><strong>ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENTS<br>**

_by Leni_

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><p>House lets out a frustrated growl and ups the volume of the TV, trying to ignore the relentless pounding at the door. Leaving the girl to scream herself hoarse in the hallway is not working, but he still considers leaving the door locked. Contrary to popular opinion, he <em>does<em> have a sense of self-preservation; he just happens to allow Wilson to manage the practical side of it. That's what a_manager_ is for, after all.

Obviously, Wilson has decided that enough is enough - for the fourth time this year - and given his location up to Cameron. See if House will be covering for him next time the wife calls up to check that they were working late.

"House!" Cameron shouts again, punctuating the sound with a kick against the wood.

If they were at his apartment, this would be the moment the neighbors call the police on them for disturbing the peace, and he has to explain to yet another frowning officer that artistic temperaments must have an outlet, and no, he and the lady are in no abusive relationship - unless one considers her attempts to compose her own pieces.

They never get the joke.

Neither does Cameron.

"I know you're in there, you rat bastard! Oh, the moment I get my hands on you...!"

But at the hotel nobody will bother them. He's paid for the whole floor, and the staff has been instructed not to interrupt for anything less than the forces of nature unleashing their fury on the world.

He should have made clear that Allison Cameron is included in that list.

"Let. Me. In!"

Short of calling her agent and talking him into retrieving his prize cellist, House knows he's stuck with the girl. But making Chase handle this would be too easy; Chase may not be as easily led as he was three years ago, but the younger man still has a soft spot for his client and it's clear that he prefers that Cameron meet with House only for business.

Storming into a five-star hotel to have it out with House is precisely the kind of thing against which Chase would advise her.

"Don't make me bribe a maid for the skeleton key."

House scoffs at that threat. Cameron should know his bribes will always be higher.

She does. "I don't care how much you give them," she continues, "I'll tell them Tritter just published another review about your latest composition. Don't think they've forgotten what you did at the Hilton last year."

They haven't. Management had sent him a stack of paperwork he'd needed to sign before they'd let him rent a suite, much less the floor. If Cameron goes to them, with her wide worried eyes and her concerns about her unstable mentor in their most expensive room, they'll rush to do her bidding.

It makes him miss the times her cheeks would blush hotly whenever she attempted a lie.

"Manipulative shrew," he mutters, but even to his ears the tone is fonder than it should be.

Three years ago, Allison Cameron had been a post-script in the world of classical music. Good enough to be invited to participate in several events, but never catching that spark that led artists to national interviews and fame. But she'd been smart, and had decided that instead of pushing her way into stardom, she needed someone to pull her into it.

Enter the most obnoxious rain of entreating letters and e-mails House had ever been subjected to. At first Wilson had written back polite rejections, citing House's wish to live in quiet seclusion and leave behind his former profession while he recuperated from the infarction. When the next letter had arrived, House had brushed off his best friend and taken a personal approach; in the simplest terms, he'd told the silly twit to leave him alone because he wasn't about to stake his reputation on an amateur with more enthusiasm than skill - and yes, he'd listened to one of her recordings, so he knew what he was talking about. But of course, he'd added, if she wanted to make her proposal in person, he had a list of Victoria's Secret items she was welcome to wear for the interview.

(He'd watched the video, too.)

House had been disappointed when he got no response, and then told himself that the spineless little girl had never been worthy of his attention anyway.

He'd even been congratulating himself on having managed the situation with better results than Wilson's, when Cuddy had swept uninvited into his apartment (she and Wilson kept their own keys since that night he'd overdosed) and started blaming him for ruining her weekend getaway, and why in hell would he sexually harass a complete stranger, had the Vicodin finally rotted his brains?

A mad lawyer was a thing to be avoided, House had learned through the years he'd kept Cuddy in retainer. Well, actually _Wilson_had kept her. They'd been partners at some firm before House had tempted Wilson away with freer hours and the adventure of traveling around the world, and Cuddy never let him forget that he'd ruined her friend's life (House still resents the accusation; it wasn't as if he told Wilson to cheat on every consecutive wive with some arm-candy that had attached to him while on tour).

When Cuddy realized that he truly had no idea what she was screaming about, she'd pulled out a copy of the letter he'd sent Cameron, and then shouted at him some more about his utter lack of a soul, to dare attack a sweet girl struggling in the thankless world of art, and if he didn't make it up to poor Miss Cameron, then he better be ready to have what little remained of his reputation to be put through the shredder and tossed in the trash - and see if his records would sell anymore!

"And have no doubt, Greg," Cuddy had roared as she slapped his chest with the folder, "I'll do it myself!"

She would have, too.

He placated her by having Wilson set up a proper meeting with poor Miss Cameron.

"Well played," he'd whispered to her as they shook hands that first time.

Cameron had flashed him a triumphant smirk before her expression settled in a demure expression. "I have no idea what you're talking about, sir," she'd said even as a bright blush climbed up her neck to cover her cheeks.

The rest, as people said, was history.

Setting up that first collaboration was a disaster. He'd scowled, demanding his privacy; she'd told him he could have quiet when he was dead. He'd ignored the invitations that tickled in once the public found out about his return; she'd worked out a schedule and convinced Wilson to drag him into following it. Fed up, House had taken a flight to Eastern Europe to escape her; she'd been waiting for him at the airport two weeks later, Wilson at her side to play chauffeur and her cello ready for more practice. He'd blamed her for every wasted rehearsal; she'd sulked and asked Cuddy for advice (the best retaliation possible, as his lawyer had given him a lecture he still remembered by the pain of long nails poking into his arm as Cuddy nagged at him).

The result, though, had earned public acclaim.

Their second and third works were better only in that they'd settled in their routine. Cameron stopped whining whenever he started improvising, and actually became adept at following his lead. There's a reason he gets the lion's share from their collaborations. He's the genius; she's lucky she has the pretty face they need for the publicity posters.

And somewhere along the way, the girl has learned to fight her own battles without Wilson or Cuddy to support her case.

"Last chance, House," she yells.

"All right!" he yells back, reaching for his cane to prop himself up. "But I don't see what you think you'll get with this, Allison. The damage is done already, and-" Once he yanks the door open, it takes him a moment to reconnect his mouth to his brain. "Allison?"

She is...

She is wearing...

"Victoria's Secret," she tells him with a tilt of her chin and the smirk that only House gets to see. "I understand you're fond of the brand?"

Then she is walking past him, all silk and stilettos.

House checks the corridor behind her, looking for... He has no idea, actually; he just needs the time to recover. He spots a gym bag a few feet away, and considers bringing it in before dismissing the idea. If this is the game Cameron has chosen, she can follow the rules to the end. House doesn't like that he's definitely missed something between last night and this visit, and he likes even less that for the first time in years his brain cannot reach a reasonable conclusion. "Dare I ask...?" he starts, rounding toward her, pushing the door closed with the tip of his cane. With his free hand, he motions toward her.

And the silk.

He figures she won't be shocked if he ogles at the silk, so he allows himself the whim.

"Always figured you for a breast man," Cameron says, and the words pull his gaze up from her hips to the aforementioned parts.

"I'm an egalitarian," House says, "Turn around and I'll prove it." Just because he's befuddled by this turn of events doesn't mean he can't run in metaphorical circles around her. To his surprise, she extends her arms to the sides and makes a slow twirl. "Delightful," he says once he's sure his voice won't waver.

He steps forward, and Cameron matches the movement by stepping away from him.

_You can look, but you won't touch_, her expression says.

Ah, so that's what's this is about.

"I didn't mean it that way, Allison."

That's as close to an apology as he can bring himself to make, but she won't take it.

"Of course," she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "when I tell people that my partner is nothing much to look at, I must mean something completely different."

He'd been needling Chase about his infatuation on her, but this time he did it in front of an audience, unaware that one of them was a reporter eager to tell the public of the deteriorated relationship between Gregory House and Allison Cameron. The article diddn't rate a first page, or even a fifth, but their world is made up of reputation, and his words make it sound like he didn't respect Cameron personally, and if her own mentor - he's _never_ called her a partner, but this wasn't the time to point that out - doesn't respect her, how can one be expected to take her work seriously?

House passes a hand through his hair. This is why he likes being right all the time; making mistakes is so uncomfortable. "I'll make it up to you," he says.

"You'll retract your statement." She waves at herself. "You can't say you don't have proof."

And have the world think they're sleeping together? That would be even worse for her reputation. "I'll tell everyone that I never said it at all."

Cameron peers at him. "You'll lie."

"Shamelessly."

That makes her grin. "All right."

When she starts walking, House assumes she's headed to the door. Instead he watches as she makes a bee-line toward him and comes to a stop a few inches away. "What are you doing?"

"Something I've been thinking about for some time."

And, helped by the height of her heels, she leans in easily to brush her lips against his.

"Why?" he whispers. He's known she was attracted to him, of course. She still isn't that good a liar, and her body language gave her up. But they've reached a wordless understanding to focus on their business arrangement. The way she has placed her hands on his shoulders and is squeezing his flesh into a possessive grasp isn't professional at all.

"Because setting things right is what my job needs. This" -and she bumps his nose with hers- "is what I want. Call it my forfeit."

House doesn't deny that he's interested; he figures he _does_ owe Cameron a forfeit for the awkwardness of the day. A night free of lies sounds like fair payment.

And this one kiss.

And perhaps one more, if she insists.

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><p><strong>THE END<strong>

**28/09/14**


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